


dizzy silver lights

by biblionerd07



Series: broad-shouldered beasts [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Behavior, Healing, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slurs, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 06:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17934809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Ian has an idea to get Mickey health insurance. Mickey's on board. Mickey'sexcited. Until he's not. And he has no idea why.





	dizzy silver lights

**Author's Note:**

> This is like a fever, you guys. I CAN'T STOP WRITING IN THIS VERSE. I tried to make myself write something in canon for them and I couldn't do it lmao. I have two more parts already in the works and there may be more. This is the most I've written in a really long time! Thanks, Mickey.

Ian’s practically stumbling through the door, that’s how tired he is, and it trips every single one of Mickey’s defensive alarms. He knows it drives Ian up the fucking wall when he freaks like that, but he can’t help it. When he sees that tiredness in Ian’s eyes all he can picture is Ian in that bed like a fucking corpse for weeks and it makes his vision start to go black around the edges.

“Calm down, Mick,” Ian says, doing his best to inject some humor into his voice. “Just regular tired because I worked for ten hours four days in a row, okay?”

“Promise?” Mickey asks, because he’s allowed to ask that. They’ve come to something of an agreement on this front, because Ian knows Mickey’s head is all fucked and he’s going to worry whether he lets Ian know he’s worrying or not.

Ian comes close and pulls Mickey in for a kiss. “Cross my heart,” he says with a wry little smile. Mickey snorts and kind of pushes him, but not hard enough to actually put any space between their bodies. “You didn’t have to wait up for me,” Ian tells him, just like he does every time he’s working second shift. Mickey usually just shrugs it off, tells him he was watching TV or some shit.

But Mickey went to the crazy clinic again today, and he always gets clingy after that. Ian knows it, and he knows that’s why Mickey waited for him. He’s holding onto Mickey extra tight, just like Mickey likes, almost too tight, and he didn’t shower at work so he can shower here and smell like their soap so if Mickey has nightmares he won’t be thrown off by a weird smell.

“Can’t sleep without you,” Mickey pushes out. That’s another thing therapy is—slowly—doing to him. He’s trying to say shit like that to Ian. The shit Ian likes to hear. Not that it isn’t true, and Ian probably already knew it, but it turns out hearing shit like that is nice even if you already knew it. The first time Mickey made a conscious decision to tell Ian what he likes—loves, whatever—about him, he’d psyched himself up so badly he’d panicked and randomly blurted out, “ _Freckles_ ” while they brushed their teeth before bed.

Ian gives him one of those soft, bright smiles that means Mickey did a good thing and kisses him again. “I don’t like you not sleeping,” Ian says. “But I kinda like that you miss me.”

Mickey snorts at him. “Selfish.”

Ian laughs. “Don’t pretend you don’t like the thought of me staring at the ceiling all night when I sleep at the station and can’t cuddle up to you.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, because they both know thinking about Ian not sleeping sets off Mickey’s anxiety, but there _is_ a little part of Mickey that likes the thought of Ian being so used to sleeping next to him that it’s hard without him.

“Come on,” Mickey says. “You gotta eat something before you go to bed.”

“What was dinner tonight?” Ian asks apprehensively as they head for the kitchen. They haven’t had spaghetti in almost a month, but they’re all worried about it making a comeback. Mickey cracked a joke about them having picky eating PTSD that made Ian snort chocolate milk up his nose. It’s nice that all of them are fucked up enough to make hilarious jokes about how fucked up they are without anyone thinking it’s rude or whatever.

“Svet brought home fucking borscht from her Russian book club,” Mickey says with disdain. No one on this Earth has gotten Mickey to eat beets and no one ever will. And he also knows for a fact Svetlana ain’t cracking a single book for that club. It’s a bunch of Russians who sit around drinking vodka and speaking Russian and eating pachlava by the trayful. “But there’s pirozhki, too.”

“Wow, you saved me pirozhki?” Ian asks. “I’m special.”

Mickey huffs. “I had to fight the kid for them. Svet thinks he’s hitting a growth spurt.”

“About time,” Ian says, popping a piroshok in his mouth cold and putting the rest of them in the microwave. “He’s like as tall as I was when I was four.”

“Okay, sorry we’re not all King Kong,” Mickey shoots back, because he’s been the short kid his whole life and there’s no doubt Yevgeny got those genes from him. “Where’d you even come from, anyway? Lip’s not that tall, and Carl’s a fucking shrimp.”

“Frank’s not my dad, remember?” Ian raises his eyebrows and Mickey feels a little stupid. He knows that was hard for Ian to swallow back when he found out.

“Shit.”

Ian waves his hand around. “Whatever. All the same genes, right?”

“Kinda nice to know you’re not really his though, right?” Mickey asks conspiratorially. “Just a little.”

Ian’s face crinkles up while he laughs. It’s one of Mickey’s favorite things to see in the whole world. “It really is,” Ian admits, sounding a little guilty. “When he’s being an asshole I get to remember Monica fucked his brother.”

Mickey groans and laughs. “Sick. You better not fuck any of my brothers.”

Ian recoils. “God, shut the fuck up. I’d never. Don’t go poking around mine, either. I know you and Lip have a thing behind my back.”

They’re trying to be quiet, since Svetlana and Yevgeny are sleeping, but they’re both laughing helplessly now, and trying to stay quiet makes them laugh harder. These are some of Mickey’s favorite times. Their life is hard most of the time. They worry about money and family and all the ghosts that hang around them. But sometimes they just sit around and shoot the shit together and crack jokes and laugh, and it always makes Mickey kind of giddy.

He never had a friend before Ian, not really. Even his own family didn’t want him around all that much, and the feeling was mutual. But then he and Ian became friends, even outside of all the fucking, and it was like a hit of some new drug. Making Ian laugh’s always made Mickey feel a little high.

Ian yanks the microwave open before it can fully countdown and do its loud beep, and then he comes to the table to sit beside Mickey. He takes a bite and then swears, opening his mouth and flapping a hand, and Mickey’s laughing so hard his stomach hurts.

“Fuck off,” Ian says, muffled through his food and his own laughter. He kicks Mickey under the table and then tangles their legs together. “Hey,” he says after he swallows, and he’s not laughing now. He looks serious and it makes Mickey a little sad. He wanted to be stupid kids for a little longer. “Wanna run something by you.”

“What?” Mickey asks apprehensively.

“The open enrollment period for my insurance at work just started up,” Ian says. “So I can make changes to my plan.” Then he just stops.

“Okay?” Mickey prompts.

“So I can add you.” Ian watches Mickey’s face carefully.

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. He chews his lip. “They let you do that without being married?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Civil union.”

Mickey makes a face. “The fuck’s a civil union?”

“Means we’re us,” Ian says with a shrug. “We gotta register for it, though.”

Mickey sits back and absorbs that. “Register?”

“Yeah, like get it official. For the insurance, ‘cause you’re not my kid.”

“Gross.”

“We just have to file a thing with the county clerk, pay a fee. See a judge or something.”

“You looked into all this already,” Mickey realizes.

“I want to get you on my insurance, Mick,” Ian says quietly. “I can tell the clinic’s helping, but I think it’ll be better if you can go to a private practice and see the same doctor every time.” He shrugs. “Besides, neither of us is going anywhere. Right?” He nudges Mickey.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Was planning to go to pound town tonight.”

It startles a loud laugh out of Ian and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “I have never heard you say _pound town_ before and I never want to again.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, arching an eyebrow. “What else should I call it when you’re pounding my ass through three zip codes?”

Ian’s laugh is a little strangled this time and he watches intently as Mickey licks his lips. “Okay, was not aware you had an agenda tonight,” Ian says, a little dazed. He blinks. “Wait, is this one of those, uh, unhealthy coping mechanism things because you went to therapy today?”

“Ian, this is the healthiest coping mechanism I’m ever gonna have,” Mickey points out, because the shrinks have been _very_ clear that getting smashed and then smashing in someone’s face or windows is not a healthy coping mechanism. “Why’s fucking my _civil union_ unhealthy?” This isn’t the first time Ian’s said something like this, like they shouldn’t fuck when Mickey’s having a bad day.

“Well, I don’t know,” Ian says with a shrug. “Just checking.”

“Oh, okay. So I can’t ask about your therapy shit but you can check in on mine?” Mickey demands. He’s mad now. Ian always acts like it’s a big fucking inconvenience that Mickey cares about him, but he gets to look into getting Mickey on his insurance and put off fucking him on days he had therapy. Ian rubs his eyes and Mickey starts to feel guilty because he knows Ian’s fucking exhausted, but the adrenaline’s making his heart pound.

“Hey, Mick?” Ian says softly. “Five seconds ago you were talking about _pound town_ and now you’re trying to pick a fight, so I think you can see why I’d be worried there’s something going on.”

Mickey breathes out harshly. He clenches his eyes closed for a second, but he knows Ian’s right. Therapy days always put him so off-kilter. He just wanted something to be normal. “I don’t think it’s the unhealthy coping mechanism thing,” Mickey says haltingly. “It’s just I…when I gotta talk about all that bad shit, I just want to come home and have a good thing. I want you to fuck me until I can’t see straight so I don’t think about all the bad shit. At least for a little while. Okay?”

Ian nods thoughtfully. “Okay,” he says. He stands up and puts his plate in the sink and then walks out of the kitchen. Mickey huffs.

“Good talk,” he mutters. Here he is trying to do what he’s supposed to, open up about his fucking _feelings_ , and Ian just walks out.

Ian pokes his head back in, eyebrows raised. “Hello?”

“Hello?” Mickey echoes, baffled.

“Now I’m driving to pound town alone?”

“You give me shit for saying it but you keep saying it,” Mickey points out as he’s scrambling out of his chair. Okay, so Ian _did_ listen.

“So, I’m not sure which route you were thinking to get to pound town,” Ian says mock-seriously, ignoring Mickey’s snort. “I was planning to blow you in the shower, and then I’d really like to carry you to the bedroom and eat your ass for a while, and then I think we’ll be ready to head into pound town.”

“Holy fucking Christ,” Mickey mutters, already unbuttoning his jeans. “I’m gonna let you plan anywhere I go from now on.”

Ian grins smugly. He makes _very_ good on his promise, and Mickey doesn’t think about any of the bad shit therapy drudged up for the whole rest of the night.

When Mickey wakes up, Ian’s already awake and doing that thing where he stares down into Mickey’s face and watches him sleep. Mickey might think it was creepy if he didn’t do the exact same thing to Ian when he’s the one awake first. It might still be creepy for both of them, but Mickey doesn’t give a fuck. If they want to be creepy to each other, that’s their business. They went through hell to get here, and sometimes it doesn’t feel real. They can stare at each other all they want.

It doesn’t stop him from saying, “You’re a creep” to Ian, though. Ian just smiles at him and leans down to kiss him good morning.

“I like watching you sleep,” Ian tells him. “Even when you drool.”

“Must’ve been dreaming about your dick,” Mickey says, and he’s rewarded by Ian cracking up laughing.

“Can you think about it today, though?” Ian asks.

“Well, I usually do,” Mickey says with a shrug. “You want to give me something specific to think about you doing with it?”

“No, Mick,” Ian laughs. “I meant the civil union thing.”

“Oh.” Mickey’s a bit taken aback. He didn’t realize Ian was so serious about that. Not to mention Ian really needs to work on his fucking transitions. What, Mickey’s supposed to remember a conversation they had for ten seconds before fucking for over an hour? Mickey forgot his own goddamn name for a while there.

“If we do it, then we’ll all have insurance,” Ian points out. “I mean, Mandy’s got insurance at her job, and Lana and Yev have her insurance, and Lip’s got insurance and Carl and Debbie have their student insurance and Fiona’s got Liam on hers. You’re the only one in the family who doesn’t have insurance, and I get kinda worried.”

Mickey rubs his eyes. “Kind of a lot to spring on me first thing in the morning,” he points out, unsure how to feel about being the big loser in the family in yet another way.

“I sprang it on you last night,” Ian says. Then he leers. “A few times.”

“You can’t keep joking about that shit and not deliver,” Mickey protests half-heartedly. There’s not much chance Ian’s going to be able to get it up after last night. He’s on a good dosage with his meds and it’s not as bad as all those years ago when he was first getting everything figured out, but he still can’t get it up as often as he used to. Mickey doesn’t really mind. If his choices are Ian getting hard or Ian getting stable, he’s happy to jerk himself off for the rest of his life. And besides, it’s not like Ian’s not happy to help out in any way he can, even if his dick isn’t standing at attention.

“We got like two seconds before Yev comes in,” Ian says. “You know he’s heard us talking and knows we’re up.”

Mickey heaves a big, fake sigh. “Kids fucking suck.”

Ian pats Mickey’s cheek as they hear the tell-tale scurrying of feet in the hallway. “Think about it, okay? Promise?” He knows Mickey well enough by now to ask him to think about it instead of deciding right away. Mickey doesn’t do so hot with on-the-spot life changes.

“I’ll think about it,” Mickey promises just as Yevgeny raps his little knuckles against their door.

“Dad! Ian! Are you awake?”

“No,” Mickey replies. “We’re still sleeping.”

“But you’re talking!”

“I’m talking in my sleep,” Mickey insists.

“Oh,” the kid says, disappointed now.

“Yev, he’s teasing,” Ian cuts in, shaking his head at Mickey like he does when Mickey’s only being a little bit of an asshole and being funny about it. “You can come in.”

Yevgeny throws the door open and says, “Mama’s making French toast for breakfast!”

“No shit?” Mickey asks. “Nice.”

For once, all their days off line up; Svetlana’s always off on weekends, because she’s the one with a respectable office job, but Ian and Mickey both have revolving schedules. Weekends together aren’t unheard of, but they’re not exactly easy to come by, either, so Svetlana must want to spoil them.

Mickey watches Ian cut Yevgeny’s French toast up for him and thinks about walking into he courthouse and filing a piece of paper that says they’re together. He expected it to make his chest squeeze tight, that no-air feeling that he used to get whenever he looked at Ian too long and was afraid of people seeing. He doesn’t get that feeling, though. He stood up in a bar full of his family and yelled out that he’s gay, and he told a bunch of doctors along the way that he’s Ian’s family, and they’ve been living here together for a year now. There aren’t many people left who _don’t_ know they’re together.

Health insurance might be nice. Svetlana thinks he should go get fucking allergy shots so he doesn’t hack up so much mucus in the spring, and maybe he could do that if he had insurance. Ian says it should be a little better now that Mickey’s quit smoking, but _better_ isn’t _gone_. He’s still not letting that fucking cat in the house though, no matter how many crocodile tears the kid cries over it. He could get actual antibiotics next time he slices his hand open working on one of the shitty beaters they all drive instead of taking whatever leftovers V can find in her cabinet. And of course, the therapy thing. If Mickey could just see his favorite therapist every time and not have to deal with the other ones, that would be good. He’s even skipped the clinic a few times when he sees the dude therapist he hates so much is the one working that week.

Ian laughs at something Svetlana says and Mickey can feel himself smiling without even knowing what’s so funny. Seeing Ian laugh does that to him. Mickey swallows hard. He thinks he likes the idea of having it down in a book somewhere. He used to think that was useless; _it’s a fucking piece of paper_ , he’d told Ian, back when he was marrying Svetlana because he didn’t have a choice. He still doesn’t really care about the piece of paper. He and Ian made promises to each other a long time ago and they’ve kept them. Sure, they’ve had a few stutter-steps, but a piece of paper wouldn’t have made a difference.

But just knowing it’s written down somewhere, knowing that someday, when he’s worm food, there’s a record that says he was Ian’s to the day he died—well, yeah. He kind of sees the draw in that.

“You are thinking hard,” Svetlana teases. “Hurting yourself?”

Mickey snorts and flicks a little crumb of French toast at her. “Fuck off,” he says fondly. “Me and Ian are gonna do that civil union thing.”

Ian makes a surprised little noise from across the table. Svetlana’s eyebrows draw together. “Civil union?” She asks.

“Just means we’re together officially with the government,” Ian says. “And then I can get him on my insurance.”

“Oh, good,” Svetlana says, looking relieved. “About time. He needs medicine.”

“I don’t need medicine,” Mickey says, because the kid looked up all curious and worried. “Not right this second. But yeah, you know, I might someday. Could be kind of cool to get stitches from an actual doctor. One who doesn’t work in the fucking joint, anyway.” The prison doctor’s the only real doctor who’s ever given him stitches. Otherwise he and his brothers used to just stitch each other up. “Oh, and your fucking grandpa with my ass,” he remembers.

Ian shakes his head, smiling. “I don’t know how happy I should be about you agreeing to this with your plans to get stitches in mind,” he says disbelievingly. “How ‘bout we just plan on you not needing stitches?”

Mickey scoffs. “I’ve gone an entire year without stitches,” he points out. “I’m way overdue.”

“Snitches get stitches,” Yevgeny contributes. All three adults stare at him.

“Did Liam teach you that?” Ian asks tiredly.

“Yeah.” Yevgeny licks syrup off his fork. “He says you never rat on your boys.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “You know what that means?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says. “No tattling.”

Mickey supposes he’s not wrong, boiled down to its essence. “Well, that’s not always true, you hear me?” Mickey says. “Kid. Look at me.” He waits for Yevgeny to comply. “If it comes down to going to jail or snitching, you protect yourself, got it?”

“But Dad,” Yevgeny says, affronted. “I can’t _squeal_.”

“If somebody else did stupid shit and they’re trying to take you down, you squeal like your fucking life depends on it, okay?” Mickey’s starting to breathe hard. The thought of the kid ever doing time is making his French toast turn to lead in his stomach. “Don’t you ever go to jail. You hear me?”

“Okay, Dad,” Yevgeny says, sounding a little exasperated. “But I’m gonna lose my rep.”

It would almost make Mickey laugh, hearing this little kid with his giant bug-eye glasses parroting phrases he’s heard around the neighborhood, except Mickey’s chest is seizing up. That’s the kind of shit Mickey got drilled into his head growing up. That’s the kind of shit that got Mickey into so much fucking trouble when he was younger. He doesn’t want Yevgeny anywhere near a situation where it would even matter.

“I want your fucking _rep_ to be goody two-shoes little nerd, kid,” Mickey tells him. “And I’m gonna talk to Liam, too. That street code bullshit sounds cool when you’re a kid trying to be hard, but in real life it’ll only get you into trouble.”

“Okay, Dad,” Yevgeny sounds more resigned this time.

“Yevgeny. I’ve been to prison, remember?” Mickey pushes. “It’s not a good fucking time. It’s really fucking scary and you’ll get hurt a lot. Don’t go there.”

“I won’t,” Yevgeny promises, eyes wide now.

“You will not be friends with people doing bad shit,” Svetlana adds severely. “You will be good boy. No trouble.”

“Yes, Mama,” Yevgeny says obediently. He doesn’t sound condescending with her. Maybe it’s the _okay_ that makes it always sound like he’s just humoring Mickey.

Mickey pushes a hand through his hair, trying to breathe. Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s leg under the table and gives it a squeeze. Mickey focuses on the touch, letting Ian ground him. He wants to get back to the happy part of this conversation. He looks over at Ian and raises his eyebrows.

“So what we gotta do to get me freeloading off you?”

Ian rolls his eyes, but his grin comes back. “We can fill out the form online, but we still have to go into the office. We can do that Monday and then I can sign you up for my insurance on Tuesday, but then we gotta do the judge part in sixty days.”

“You already planned,” Svetlana says, surprised. “I did not know you were thinking about it.”

“I didn’t either,” Mickey says. “Mr. Research over here’s been doing his homework behind our backs.”

Svetlana laughs. “Knew he had to have whole plan before telling you.”

Ian laughs, too. “Hey, I was just trying to figure out how to get Mickey on my insurance. Guess I kinda went down a rabbit hole.”

“Alright, well, let’s do it,” Mickey says. “We gotta pay a fee?”

“Sixty bucks,” Ian confirms.

“Fuck, they charge people that much for a goddamn piece of paper but _I’m_ the scam artist?” Micky complains.

“You’re still a scam artist,” Ian points out.

“What’s a scam artist?” Yevgeny asks, right on cue.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey says. “You want more French toast?” He feels bad for losing his shit on the kid. The kid’s kind of a wimpy little nerd anyway, so Mickey didn’t need to try to scare him straight or what the fuck ever. He just couldn’t really help it.

They eat French toast and they take the kid to the park and they eat lunch with Fiona and Liam and Carl. Mickey falls asleep halfway through whatever singing princess movie Fiona bought for the kids a hundred years ago with Svetlana muttering in Russian under her breath every time the princess does something stupid and Ian singing along with all the songs to make Fiona laugh. It’s not a big day or anything. It’s a normal Saturday.

But then they go home and get the kid into bed. They’re sitting on the couch with Ian’s laptop balanced on their thighs and Ian pulls up the application and Mickey’s breath stutters for a second because it says—

“This is a marriage application.”

“Nah, it’s just in the same office,” Ian says distractedly, tongue between his teeth as he starts typing.

“Why are you Applicant A?” Mickey demands, because he needs to say something. Now he’s got that tight-chest feeling he was expecting. He isn’t totally sure why, though, and Ian’s already filling in the application, and Mickey suddenly feels like he needs to run.

Ian snorts. “Alphabetical,” he justifies himself. “I and G both come before M, so I get to be first.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, watching Ian fill out their address. He brings his thumbnail to his mouth and starts chewing away. The therapist he hates told him it shows a lack of self-control, but the one he likes said it’s better than smoking, so what the fuck ever.

 _Highest level of education_. That’s what it’s asking. Ian clicks on the one that says he did a little bit of college and Mickey can see the other choices, the ones that say _none_ and _did not complete_ and now he can’t breathe. _Is this your first marriage?_ All these signs are pointing to him being an absolute fuckup. And yeah, Ian already knows all that, but Jesus Christ. Why does the _government_ need to know that?

“Mick?” Ian asks, and Mickey suddenly realizes he’s panting. “Hey, whoa, what?” Ian puts the laptop to the side, eyes all big and concerned and caring about Mickey, and then Mickey’s up and off the couch, sprinting down the hall to make it to the toilet before he pukes.

Ian leans against the doorframe while Mickey’s spitting out the last of the pizza he ate for dinner. Mickey fucking hates throwing up. Even if he brushes his teeth three times, he’ll still taste it.

“Should I be offended?” Ian asks, sounding amused, but Mickey can’t even look at him right now. His nose is running like it always does after he pukes and he swipes a hand under it to catch the snot. “Mickey?” Ian tries, taking a step into the bathroom.

“I don’t—” Mickey’s voice cracks, throat raw from the puking.

“Hang on,” Ian says, grabbing a cup off the counter and filling it up with water. He hands it to Mickey, concern all over his face, and Mickey closes his eyes as the cool water goes down his throat. Ian comes closer and feels Mickey’s forehead. Mickey shouldn’t have flinched, but he did, and he sees Ian swallow hard about that. “You got a stomach bug?” Ian asks.

“I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Maybe.” He doesn’t have a stomach bug. He knows that. He knows exactly what this is. He used to call them the pussy pukes, because he usually puked like this when he was pussying out of something. The shrink says it’s the anxiety. But he thinks his original name fits well right now, because he is pussying out _hard_ right now.

“Okay,” Ian says, all gentle and caring and making Mickey have to swallow hard and look away so he doesn’t tear up. “Come on, let’s go to bed. We can worry about the form in the morning.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. He lets Ian pull him up off the bathroom floor and lead him down the hall. Ian rubs his back until Mickey closes his eyes and evens out his breath and pretends he’s asleep. He has a lot of practice pretending to be asleep when he was trying to fake Terry out. Mickey heard once you’re supposed to fake dead with bears. With Terry, sometimes faking sleep could keep him safe. Stay really still and Terry couldn’t see him. Don’t move and maybe Terry wouldn’t catch his scent.

Ian snuggles in close to Mickey and it takes everything in Mickey not to start crying. He doesn’t know why this is happening. He doesn’t know why he’s freaking out right now. He was fine with this earlier today. He liked the idea. But seeing that form, seeing the questions, seeing the word _marriage_ at the top, has him a step away from running.

He needs to tell Ian. This is the kind of shit they talk through these days. They don’t just hide it until one of them really does run off. But Mickey can’t figure out what to say. Ian’s being all logical about this, like it’s all about the health insurance. Mickey knows it’s partially about the health insurance, but Mickey balking over doing this because it’s essentially marriage is not going to go down well. Ian’s never said a word about wanting to get married, and he’s the one who scoffed about it when Mickey mentioned in sickness and health all those years ago.

But he wasn’t totally himself then. And that was a long time ago, anyway. There has to be some part of him that’s excited about this for the commitment. Mickey knows Ian. He knows marriage means something to him, even if it’s just deep down. Ian’s a hell of a lot more romantic than he pretends to be. He’s always had big fucking dreams and Mickey knows that includes the good family life with Prince Charming. But then he got stuck with Mickey too young, before he could realize Mickey was no good for him, and then they had their claws in each other too deep and couldn’t untangle themselves no matter how hard they tried.

It’s not the commitment that’s freaking Mickey out. He doesn’t need the paper to tell him he’s committed to Ian. It’s not like he wants to keep his options open or whatever. He’s never going to be with anyone but Ian, and he’s not even worried about Ian deciding he’s over this and leaving him, either. Not too worried, anyway. He trusts Ian. Mickey has no issue planning out the next sixty years of their life, assuming all his smoking and drinking and drugs don’t catch up to him before then. Ian makes him _want_ to live another sixty years, being old guys who shake their canes at kids in the neighborhood and complain about how much shit costs.

Mickey doesn’t know _what’s_ freaking him out. But something is crushing his lungs, making his fingers twitch and making him sweat. He knows he needs to talk about this with Ian. But he knows it’s going to make Ian’s face fall the way it always does when Mickey disappoints him, and Mickey can’t even give him a reason. There’s not much to talk about if Mickey doesn’t even know what’s going on in his nightmare brain.

Mickey hardly sleeps. And that doesn’t exactly do wonders for his anxiety. Ian keeps feeling his forehead, but Mickey knows he doesn’t have a fever. He plays it up, though, pretending he still feels sick and acting all pathetic. Yevgeny comes in and lies down beside him for a while, even though Svetlana kicks up a fuss about him getting Mickey’s germs. Ian doesn’t say anything, and Mickey can see in his eyes Ian’s starting to get it. Mickey buries his face in the pillow.

“Are you gonna throw up, Dad?” Yevgeny asks.

“Nah, I’m okay, little man,” Mickey promises.

“I got sick once,” Yevgeny tells him sympathetically. “I threw up on the floor.”

“You’ve been sick more than once,” Mickey says. “You just don’t remember the other times.”

“How many times have you been sick?” Yevgeny asks.

Mickey snorts. “I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”

“Mama said she’s making soup for you.” The kid’s elbow is jabbing directly into Mickey’s stomach, so he’s obviously not good at this taking care of the sick thing. If Mickey were actually sick, this would be the fucking worst way to feel better.

“What’s Ian doing?” Mickey asks, voice low. He can’t believe he’s asking the seven-year-old for the downlow on his…Ian, but Mickey’s pretty well aware of how pathetic he is.

“Watching TV,” Yevgeny reports. “He had his computer before but he put it away.”

 _He put it away_. Mickey’s stomach twists. Maybe he is going to throw up. He wishes he could pull each warring part of himself apart and examine them separately. He’d like to know why the fuck he wants to puke when they’re filling out the form but also wants to puke at the thought of Ian putting the form away. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Ian doesn’t say a word when he climbs into bed beside Mickey that night. Mickey stares up at the ceiling, tears filling his eyes as he hears Ian breathing. He holds his breath and closes his eyes, trying to force himself to go to sleep. It’s not working, even though he’s exhausted. There’s a foot of space between them and Mickey knows it’s his fault but he doesn’t know what to do.

He rolls closer to Ian, tentatively. He knows Ian can tell by now that Mickey’s backing out of the civil union thing. He can also tell Ian’s hurt. He can read Ian’s hurt feelings better than any book. He doesn’t know if Ian even wants Mickey to touch him right now.

But Ian opens his arms and pulls Mickey in. Mickey buries his face in Ian’s shoulder and Ian presses his face to the top of Mickey’s head. They don’t say anything, and he can hear Ian’s breath hitching a little, but at least they’re still in this together.

 

Ian doesn’t say a single word about the civil union or insurance or any of it. They’re dancing around it like it never happened. It’s bad enough that Svetlana picked up on it, eyes going a little wide at the awkwardness between them. She’s sure as hell not going to say anything. She perfected slithering away from all their dramatic shit years ago.

Mickey goes on break at work on Tuesday and doesn’t really know what to do with himself. Now that he doesn’t smoke, these breaks feel a lot longer. A cigarette sounds amazing right now, but he doesn’t even have a pack on him, and there’s no way anyone he works with won’t give him shit if he buys some.

Sometimes he calls Ian on his break. Mickey taps his phone for a minute, considering, but then he tells himself to quit being a pussy and hits the call button. Ian doesn’t answer, and that does not make Mickey feel good. He reminds himself that Ian’s job doesn’t always afford him time to chitchat. He either has all downtime or none, and he has no control over it. It doesn’t mean he’s ignoring Mickey.

It feels like it, thought.

Mickey sighs and idly scrolls through his recent calls. It’s short, because Mickey doesn’t spend a lot of time on the phone. It’s mostly all Ian. Svetlana’s in there a few times, and Fiona when she needs him to come fix something at her house.

Mandy.

Mickey hesitates. Ian talks to Mandy a shit ton more than Mickey does. Ian talks to Mandy every goddamn day and sometimes he’ll hold up the phone so Mickey and Mandy can say _hey_ to each other. But Mickey only talks to sister for real once every few months, really. They’ve just never had a relationship that involved a lot of talking. She’d point at some dude, Mickey would beat his ass, and they’d move on. Mickey’s not good on the phone, anyway.

But Mandy might know what he’s freaking out about. They don’t have to talk much to figure each other out. They know each other well enough to pick up on shit from hundreds of miles away.

“Hey, shithead,” Mandy answers, sounding surprised. She might sound pleased to hear from him. He doesn’t know; he’s too anxious right now to dissect it.

“Hey,” Mickey says nervously. He doesn’t say anything else.

“Something going on?” Mandy asks after maybe a whole minute of silence.

“Uh…” Mickey sighs. “Yeah.”

Mandy waits again. She snorts. “You gonna tell me?”

“I—” Mickey breaks off. What if Ian doesn’t want him talking about this? Mickey didn’t consider that. Normally, he wouldn’t think Ian would get mad at him for talking to Mandy about anything, but he doesn’t feel like they’re on real solid ground right now so he’s not sure.

“Something happen?” Mandy asks, concerned now.

“I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Yeah. I fucked up.” He shakes his head. “What else is new?”

“What happened?” Mandy asks. “You do something stupid?”

He’d be a little annoyed that his own sister’s ready to get pissed at him and take Ian’s side, except he gets the impulse. He’d probably side with Ian over Mandy, too. He can’t really think of anyone he’d side against Ian for. “Ian, uh, he asked—well, he wanted…” Mickey blows out a breath. “He wants me to have health insurance. So he wanted to do one of those, uh, civil union things.”

“Whoa,” Mandy says.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Mickey says, voice shaking. He glances around to make sure no one can hear him. He’s in the alley behind the store, so it’s just him and the dumpster right now. “I said yeah, let’s do it and then…”

“And then you freaked out,” Mandy guesses. Not exactly a tough guess.

“I don’t know why though,” Mickey says. “We already…I mean, it’s just a piece of paper to say what we already do.”

“Yeah,” Mandy says. She doesn’t say anything for a minute. “You think it’s the gay thing?”

Mickey huffs. “I told the whole goddamn bar and dealt with Terry and then I got the dude’s name tattooed on my chest _in prison_. I don’t think the gay thing’s a real problem anymore.”

“Feel like you don’t deserve it?” Mandy suggests.

Mickey looks down at a half-crushed box that once held granola bars. “I don’t know. I was happy. I was…excited. Until we started filling out the form.”

“Hmm.” Mandy thinks that over. “Maybe you’re just being a pussy.”

“Thanks, that’s real fucking helpful,” Mickey snaps, annoyed.

“I’m just saying, the whole cold feet thing or whatever. You didn’t want to marry Svetlana, either.”

“That’s not even close to being the same,” Mickey says disbelievingly.

“Okay,” Mandy relents. “Right. But I mean, maybe it’s just one of those thing you’re gonna freak out about and you just have to nut up and do it. And then you’ll be happy.”

“I can’t,” Mickey whispers. “If I’m doing it—I’m not gonna just grit my teeth and fucking get it over with. He deserves better than that.”

Mandy doesn’t say anything for a second. “Well, just tell yourself it’s about the health insurance thing.”

“It’s not, though,” Mickey says. “It’s…it’s more than that.”

“I know,” Mandy sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You had all the fucking answers at my birthday,” Mickey says.

Mandy snorts. “Yeah, I’ve had a birthday party before. I haven’t been married.”

Mickey groans. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” she says, not actually sounding very sorry. “I still say quit being a pussy and just do it.”

“But—”

“I know, I know, you want to be all in.” She laughs a little. “You’re actually a romantic, Mickey.”

“Fuck off, I’m not,” he protests.

It makes her laugh harder. “You are, though. If you weren’t, getting married for insurance would just be another scam. You wouldn’t care.”

“I don’t care about the romance,” Mickey scoffs. “I just care about Ian.”

“That’s what I mean,” Mandy says smugly.

“Ah, fuck you,” Mickey says. “I gotta get back to work.”

“Okay. I hope you do it, though,” she says softly. “You guys should be happy.”

Mickey has a lump in his throat. “Me, too.”

“I call being Ian’s best woman,” she says.

“You don’t want to be mine?” Mickey asks.

“Not if I can be Ian’s instead,” she says. “I like him better.”

“Okay, fuck off, goodbye.” He hangs up, her laughter in his ear.

That didn’t help at all. Now he’s just more confused than he was before. Is he just being a pussy? Well, he knows he is, but is she right? Should he just sack up and get it over with? He looks down at the picture of Ian on his phone. He sighs. He meant what he told Mandy—Ian doesn’t deserve Mickey acting like it’s an imposition, like he’s plugging his nose to take some nasty medicine. Not that Mickey’s ever done that, but kids on TV are always crying over fucking cough syrup. If they’re doing this, they’re going to do it right. Mickey’s got to figure out what the fuck is going on in his own head.

Mickey walks into the free clinic on Wednesday knowing he looks like absolute shit. He’s barely slept since Saturday and he’s hardly been able to eat, either. He and Ian seem to be in a stalemate; they both know they need to talk this out, but neither of them will make the first move. Mickey knows it’s on him, knows it isn’t fair to make Ian come to him when this is his shit and his freak out, but he doesn’t want to bring it up when all he can say is that he doesn’t have any idea what his problem is. He’s miserable and he knows it shows. A lady in the waiting room moves to a different chair when he sits down and he doesn’t even have the energy to flip her off. This is a fucking free mental health clinic in South Side Chicago; there is no way Mickey is the scariest looking dude in here.

The horse-face shrink comes out of the office. He called her _Doc_ once and she said he could call her that if he wanted or he could just call her Kim. Her mouth drops open a little when she sees Mickey, so he must look even worse than he thought. “Mickey,” she says, coming closer but not touching him. “Come on back.”

The second they get to her office, he starts losing all the control he’d been clinging to. He’s been barely holding himself together for days and something about her office makes him come undone. It’s like that guy with the dogs. Mickey always has breakdowns in this office, so now he just starts breaking down as soon as he gets inside. His hands start shaking and his nose is running. He’s not crying—he even brings his hands up to his face to check, because he can never fucking be sure these days—but for some reason his nose is just running. He leans over and puts his head between his knees.

“Take all the time you need,” Kim says, and he hears her chair squeak when she sits down. She’s not even phased by him completely losing his shit. He does it so often she’s used to it. It takes him a minute or two to get himself under control.

“Ian wants to get a civil union,” he says, voice shaking.

“What did you say when he asked?”

“I said yes. I said—he just said think about it. And I thought about it. I _wanted_ to. _I_ said we were gonna do it. He didn’t push me or anything.”

“That’s good,” she says, pushing a box of tissues at him when he looks up. He ignores them and uses his sleeve, because that’s who he is as a person.

“But I lost my shit when we started filling out the thing. It said—the paper said it was a marriage form, too. And I don’t know. The marriage thing—I just lost it. I fucking _puked_.”

She makes a face. “That’s not good.”

“And he just thought I was sick, but now he knows I’m not sick. He’s a fucking EMT. He knows I’m pussying out. And I can tell he’s mad.”

“He’s mad?” Kim asks.

“No,” Mickey admits. “He’s…” He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Hurt his fucking feelings.”

“You’d rather he was mad,” Kim guesses.

“We could just fight it out,” Mickey agrees. “But he hasn’t said a fucking word about it. Just acts like it didn’t happen. He won’t even look me in the fucking eye.”

Kim doesn’t say anything for a second. “Do you want him to say something about it?”

Mickey throws his hands up. “We both know I freaked the fuck about it. I mean, I know I should bring it up since I’m the one losing my shit. But I don’t know what to tell him. We told Svetlana and the kid we were doing it. We can’t just _not_ do it and keep it quiet.”

“Mickey, you don’t have to do anything,” Kim says. “Your father made you do a lot of things and made you feel powerless for most of your life. He’s not here anymore.”

“He wouldn’t make me do this,” Mickey says, barking out a little laugh. “He’d kill me just for thinking about it.”

“Do you want to marry Ian?” Kim asks quietly.

It makes Mickey’s breath stutter away. “I don’t know,” he chokes out. “I sorta like—I mean, it sounds good, right? Making it official. Sickness and health, all that shit. We take care of each other. We already do all that shit. Why not put it on paper and get all the shit that comes with it?”

“Why not?” Kim echoes. “Really? Why not?”

“I don’t fucking know.” It’s dangerously close to a wail, something Terry would’ve slapped him for. Mickey takes a deep breath. “I think I just—I mean, Ian wants me to get on his health insurance. But we gotta have something official for that. So it’s not that big of a deal. But it is. But I don’t know _why_ it is. We already do all that! What the fuck does it matter?”

Kim shrugs at him. “I could offer you some theories, but it’s the psychology stuff you hate.” Any time she starts sounding too shrinky, Mickey gets annoyed. Today he’ll take anything he can get, though.

Mickey blows out a breath. “Yeah, well, I need the big guns. Lay it on me.”

It makes Kim laugh a little. “Okay. I think you have some extremely negative associations in your mind with marriage. You were forced into a marriage with someone you didn’t have feelings for. No positive feelings, for sure, and someone who was part of a very traumatizing day and extended period in your life.” She holds up a hand to ward off the protestations on his tongue. “I know you and Svetlana have a good relationship now. I know there’s also the consideration of her victimhood in this situation. But Mickey, you cannot tell me you didn’t have some panic attacks around her back then. You’ve told me you would wake up in the middle of the night feeling like you couldn’t breathe and the smell of her perfume made you throw up.”

Mickey looks down at his hands. He rubs his finger over the faded tattoos on his knuckles. “I guess. But I don’t want to tell her I can’t marry Ian because I’m fucked up over marrying her. That’ll make her feel shitty.”

“You don’t have to tell her that,” Kim points out. “Or you could tell her that and explain it has more to do with the lack of control you had in that situation than on her.”

“I mean, she already knew I fucked dudes at the time, so she probably couldn’t get too upset.”

“And it’s not just your own forced marriage, Mickey. Do you know anyone with a healthy, positive marriage?”

Not his parents, that’s for goddamn sure. He’s pretty sure the marriage between the meth head and the drunkard who beat each other and their kids and fucked around on each other at least once a month doesn’t count as healthy or positive. He doesn’t actually know very many married people, period. Kev and V are pretty healthy and positive. Apparently there was a whole thing after they had their twins, but Mickey was busy trying to figure out what was wrong with Ian at that point, so he doesn’t know what went down and he doesn’t really care.

“One couple,” he says. “But they did start out ghetto married until his divorce came through so they could get real married.”

Kim nods. She never acts like Mickey’s freaking her out, and he appreciates that. He can’t handle those people who act all scandalized when he talks about how shitty his life was. He _knows_. Except sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes Kim literally has to explain to him, “No, Mickey, it isn’t normal or healthy that your father watched you lose your virginity to a prostitute he paid for when you were thirteen.” Or, “Actually, Mickey, talking casually about how to kill someone is a bit worrisome.” Luckily, she doesn’t say it like he’s stupid.

“But…” Mickey shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense, though. Why should I give a fuck how other people are married? Even with me and Svet. It wouldn’t be the same. This is me and Ian.”

Kim looks at him for a long time without saying anything. “Mickey…I hope you won’t get angry when I say this, but I think you have insecurities about your relationship with Ian.”

“I trust Ian,” Mickey says warningly. What the fuck kind of insecurities would he have with Ian? He knows Ian’s with him. They’ve done all this communication shit and Ian’s been by his side with everything that’s happened this year, with trying to be better for the kid and Terry finding them and everything. Ian’s proved he’s sticking around. Ian gave him a fucking birthday party.

“I know that,” Kim says. “I know that your relationship with Ian is stable now. But it wasn’t very stable for a long time, isn’t that right?”

Mickey doesn’t answer for a second. He shrugs. “Guess so,” he finally says begrudgingly.

“When your father forced you to marry Svetlana, Ian left. And then when Ian came back and the two of you worked things out, Ian went through a few manic and depressive episodes. You watched him drive away with your son, and he left without warning with his mother. And then Ian broke up with you and you went to prison, where Ian did not visit you. And then you got out of prison and had sex with Ian, and he left before you woke up.”

“Fuck, you gotta list it out like that?” Mickey can hear that his voice is high-pitched with fear. He didn’t realize he’d told her this much shit. He feels absurdly embarrassed to have given her his life story. That doesn’t make any sense because it’s literally the _whole fucking reason_ he even knows her, but he can never seem to handle anyone knowing shit about him. Sometime he still gets embarrassed with _Ian_ knowing stuff, even the stuff Ian was there for.

“Yes,” she says bluntly. “I’m not saying the two of you haven’t put a ton of work into your relationship. You trust Ian, and your relationship with him now is strong and has been stable for a year, right?”

“Yeah.”

“A year weighed against all the rest of it…” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s going to take more time for those insecurities to go away.”

Mickey has tears in his eyes now. “It’s not Ian’s fault. I wasn’t—I mean, I did worse shit before all that, and then he wasn’t on meds for his bipolar so you can’t hold it against him.”

“It’s no one’s fault, Mickey. I’m not saying this to put blame on anyone. I just want you to recognize that your feelings are more complicated than just loving Ian. You know that Beatles song, _All You Need is Love_?”

“No,” Mickey scoffs. “Sounds like bullshit.”

“It is,” she agrees ruefully. “It’s a nice idea, but we need a lot more than love in a relationship.”

Mickey blows out a shaky breath. “When I…just before I got locked up. When Ian was breaking up with me. I, uh, I told him I loved him. And I kinda.” He swallows hard. “I guess I said stuff that made him think I was talking about getting married. And he made fun of it.” He rushes to add, “He wasn’t—I mean, he was off his meds, you know, and anyway, he was eighteen and he thought he was doing a good thing, cutting me loose so I wasn’t stuck with him for the rest of my life.” And Mickey was driving him up the fucking wall playing nurse. He still does that now. Maybe that part makes him a little insecure. He doesn’t think so, though. Ian doesn’t get pissed at him for it anymore. A little annoyed sometimes when Mickey’s going overboard, but not pissed like he did when they were getting it all figured out the first time.

“Are you justifying what happened for me or for yourself?”

Mickey covers his face with his hands. “I’m not mad at Ian.” He isn’t. Mickey knows what being mad feels like really intimately. He’s not mad at Ian.

“Mickey,” Kim says gently. “I don’t think you’re mad. I think you’re still very hurt over what happened. I don’t think you’ve ever let yourself grieve over all that and deal with it.”

“It was a long time ago,” Mickey tries. “Why do I gotta grieve if we’re past it now?”

“Was that the first time you told Ian you loved him?” Kim asks.

“Um…” Mickey wipes his face. “To his face. I told him in a message on his phone but…” He shrugs. “He didn’t get it. It was when he took the kid.”

“And I’m going to guess it was the first time you’ve told a romantic partner you loved them?”

Mickey laughs humorlessly. “It was the first time I told _anyone_. We didn’t say that shit at home.”

Kim sighs a little. “Mickey.” She sounds sad. He didn’t think therapists were supposed to let you know they feel bad for you. He’s so pathetic even his shrink can’t hold back. “That kind of hurt doesn’t go away easily. Pretending it didn’t happen doesn’t make it true.”

“But he says it now,” Mickey protests. “He says it all the fucking time. And I know he means it.”

“You know our emotions don’t care about logic,” she points out. “Telling him you loved him was monumental. And you felt like he was mocking you for it. Listen to what you just said to me. You said he _made fun_ of you for implying you wanted to get married. You were really vulnerable in that moment, and you can’t just forget about it. You have to put in the work, just like you do with everything else.”

Mickey’s fully crying now, remembering that horrible blank look in Ian’s eyes as he kicked Mickey to the curb. “Fucking Sammi came at me with a gun after that and Ian just went in the goddamn house,” he admits. “Didn’t even check if I was still breathing. I came out for him and he fucking left me.”

Kim reaches across the desk and puts her hand on top of Mickey’s. She doesn’t usually touch him, but he doesn’t mind too much. It’s a little weird, but it’s just his hand, anyway. “Mickey, you and I both know, logically, that a lot of that had to do with what was happening with his own mental health. That doesn’t actually mean Ian didn’t love you and care about you. But in that moment when you took such a big, important step, you didn’t feel safe and you didn’t feel like your feelings were reciprocated.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “So it’s still fucking me up, huh?”

Kim smiles at him apologetically. “Seems like it. I’m sorry.”

Mickey groans and wipes at his tears and then his nose. “Great.” How’s he supposed to tell Ian all this? Mickey squeezes his thighs. “I thought therapy was going to fix me,” he says. “But it’s—I feel like I’m getting worse. Shit never used to make me freak out this bad.”

Kim gives him a look. “That’s a good thing. You’re actually letting yourself think about these things and feel your emotions for the first time instead of going on benders and ignoring the pain. Please do not try to tell me your life was better when you were using violence to avoid your feelings.”

“Well, I didn’t cry a million times every fucking day,” Mickey points out. But he sighs. “Yeah, I know. Crying isn’t bad. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Well, looks like you don’t need therapy anymore,” Kim says sarcastically, eyebrows raised. “You’ve got it all figured out.”

Mickey slumps in the chair. “And I’m just always going to be fucked up like this?” She was the one who told him PTSD probably changed his whole fucking brain.

“No,” Kim says. “Not like this, necessarily.” She steeples her fingers together like a shrink on TV. “It’s going to get better. I know it’s hard for you to believe me when I say that, but it will. But here’s the thing, Mickey. Recovery isn’t linear. So five years from now, you could be in a great place. You could be happy and doing well and not having nightmares or panic attacks. And then one day, you might wake up and remember something that happened when you were nine, and suddenly you’re not in a great place anymore. Even if you get to a consistently good state of mind, you’re going to have days where all these negative thought patterns and emotions creep in. No one is ever really _healed_ , not the way you’re imagining. I can’t give you an antibiotic and make this all go away. It’s just not really how humans work.”

“Well, that fucking sucks,” Mickey says. He remembers the doctor telling Ian he’d have to be on these meds for forty years and how panicked they both were over that. He thinks of Ian still having bad periods even with his meds being stable for years. He thinks of Svetlana getting in a fucking bar fight because her rich bitch friends were making fun of strippers when really she was freaking out about her dad selling her when she was seven.

“It does,” Kim agrees. “But I’d like to get you to a place where it doesn’t suck as much as it does now. Coping mechanisms.”

“Is, uh. Is getting fucked a bad coping mechanism?” He feels kind of stupid asking, but he wants to be able to put Ian’s mind at ease.

“Getting fucked…literally?” She asks. She never gets awkward about any of this shit and it makes Mickey feel a little better. He feels awkward enough for both of them. He can talk about sex and whores in general terms and even get specific for other people, but he hates talking about his own sex life.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Sex.”

Kim considers. “With Ian?”

“Yeah.” Mickey’s face shouldn’t flush over this, but it does.

“Is it consensual and safe for both of you?”

“Yes,” Mickey answers defensively. He knows a lot of people think he’s some kind of fucking rapist because of his family, but he doesn’t do that shit. He can’t claim he and Ian have always been safe, in a few different definitions of the word, but they’ve sure as fuck both always wanted it.

“Are you _there_ the whole time? Remember when we talked about dissociation? Does that happen?”

“No,” Mickey says, a little laugh bubbling up his throat. “I am _all_ there.”

“Does it make you feel better?”

“Sure fucking does,” Mickey says.

“Just because you’re focusing on the physical pleasure?” Kim asks. “Is it just serving as a distraction? I’m not saying that’s necessarily a bad thing,” she adds.

“It’s not just because it feels good.” Mickey’s face is burning now. The only thing worse than talking about his sex life is talking about his _feelings_ about his sex life. “It’s—I mean, yeah, obviously that’s good. I don’t have to think about all the bad shit when I’m—” He cuts off before he gives her specifics. It’s better for both of them. “But it’s, uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. He feels so fucking dumb saying this. But she can’t judge him for the shit he says. “It’s like, um. When we’re fucking, it’s just…that used to be the only good thing in my life. Everything else was shit, but I had Ian. Even when I was trying to pretend it was just fucking, no feelings or anything, that was still the best thing I had. And now we’ve been through all this other shit, and we have other good things now. But we still have this. And Ian…Ian loves me. He cares if I’m, you know, having a bad day, or if I’m losing my shit. Even when I cry like a little bitch in front of him. He takes care of me. He’s gonna make me happy, even if everything’s fucked.”

Kim smiles at him. It’s a soft little smile. “Mickey,” she says. “That’s not at all an unhealthy coping mechanism.”

“Yeah?” He checks.

“Sex can be an unhealthy coping mechanism,” she says. “You weren’t wrong about that.” It’s Ian who wasn’t wrong, but whatever. “But you’re not seeking out strangers or toxic people for sex. You’re not harming a relationship. Your sex is safe and consensual and you have a partner who knows you dissociate sometimes. You use sex with Ian as a coping mechanism because it connects you to him. It isn’t necessarily the sex you’re using to cope. It’s _Ian_. It’s your relationship. It’s his love and support.”

“That’s good?” Mickey asks. It sounds good when she says all that. It’s the kind of thing that would make him twitch and run away, once upon a time, but he doesn’t think a shrink would ever say him going out looking for love and support is a bad thing. It sure feels pretty good.

“It’s really good,” she assures him. “Especially for you.”

Mickey wrinkles his brow. “The fuck’s that mean?”

“You spent the majority of your life suppressing not just your sexuality, but your ability to feel anything. The only emotion your father accepted was anger, right?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, looking away. Even that was a crapshoot. Mickey was only supposed to be mad when Terry wanted him to be.

“The fact that being with Ian makes you feel safe and loved and happy is a good thing. And the fact that you _recognize_ being with Ian makes you feel safe and loved and happy and will admit it is even better. I do want to work on finding you some other coping mechanisms, though.”

“In case I don’t have Ian anymore?” That’s going to make Mickey puke again if he thinks about it too much.

Kim tips her head to the side. “No, not necessarily. It’s just always good to have more than one coping mechanism. You can have Ian, and then maybe you can also have exercise and a hobby. Never hurts to have more than one tool in the toolbox, right?”

Mickey, fucked as he is, connects that to always needing to have more than one type of weapon on hand, but he decides against telling her that. He doesn’t need her to tell him that’s fucked up. He got that all on his own.

Mickey sighs. “So do I get the civil union thing or not?”

Kim gives him a look. “How long we been doing this, Mickey? Am I going to tell you what to do in your personal relationship?”

Mickey groans. “Come on. First time for everything.”

Kim snorts. “Nice try, kid.”

Mickey shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“You and Ian could come in together,” Kim offers. Ian’s come with Mickey a time or two at the free clinic.

“He has his own shrink, though,” Mickey says. “Hey. If I get insurance, you got an office? Like a real one for people who pay you?”

Kim laughs. “Yes, I have a practice. And I take most insurance. You wouldn’t want to go to the same doctor as Ian?”

Mickey makes a face. “I don’t like Ian’s shrink.”

“Is Ian’s doctor a man, by any chance?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, taken aback. “So?”

Kim shrugs. “More psychology stuff. But I think you’re a bit worn out on that for today. We’ll tackle that another day.”

Mickey huffs. “I got enough shit to keep you in business for life.”

“Probably,” Kim agrees. Mickey flips her off and she laughs at him.

“Okay,” he says. “Uh, thanks.” This is her job, technically, but Mickey knows not all these shrinks are as good as her. He’s glad she was here today.

“You’re welcome, Mickey.”

He stands up and waits for a second. “I really thought you might tell me what to do,” he says with a rueful laugh.

“The only thing I’m going to tell you to do is talk to Ian.” Kim shrugs. “But you were going to do that anyway.”

Mickey shrugs back. “Guess so. Thanks, Doc.”

 

“Hey.” Mickey stands in the doorway for a second. Ian’s lying on the bed, all stretched out and looking nine feet tall. This is the kind of thing that makes Mickey want to climb him like a tree. But they have to have a serious talk right now. If Mickey’s lucky, Ian will let him climb him like a tree after they’re done.

“Hi,” Ian says softly. After a second, he pats the bed beside him. “You want to come here?”

“Yeah.” Mickey kicks off his shoes and hesitantly lies down beside Ian.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says right away. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about how hard it would be for you.”

Mickey sighs. “Ian, _I_ didn’t fucking know. We can’t even predict what’s gonna set me off. All you did was ask me to think about it and then I fucking jumped right in. You don’t have to apologize for wanting to take care of me.” He bites his lip. “That’s what I want. That’s what we do, right?”

Ian presses closer to him and takes his hand. “I don’t need anything more than this, Mick. I really don’t. I just want to know why you said yes but—” He stops himself.

“I didn’t know why. But I talked to Kim about it,” Mickey says. He pulls back so Ian can actually hear him, but he doesn’t meet Ian’s eyes. “I told her how…how I, uh. I _want_ to do it. The civil union or even fucking…do it for real. Go to the courthouse like two old queens, you know?”

“Holy shit,” Ian says, but Mickey can’t stop or he’s not going to be able to tell Ian everything Kim said.

“But I freaked out and I don’t know why. And she said maybe it’s—she said I have, uh, like bad stuff with marriage. ‘Cause with Svet…’cause of my dad. You know, making me. And then when I got married, I lost you. For a while. Not your fault,” Mickey adds quickly. “Get why you were mad.”

“I don’t think mad was my main emotion,” Ian corrects softly, smiling sadly.

“Yeah, well, Kim says that’s the only fucking emotion I know because it was all I was allowed to have.”

“Used to be,” Ian says. “You’re not like that anymore, though.”

“I’m trying, Ian.” Mickey’s almost begging. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, though. For Ian to understand, maybe. “I’m trying really fucking hard.”

“I know,” Ian whispers. “Mickey, I know you are.” He presses their foreheads together. “You’re doing so good.”

“I don’t think I am,” Mickey says shakily. “I feel like all I do is make you ma—whatever. Sad. Hurt. I hurt you all the fucking time, no matter how hard I try.”

Ian sighs. He shakes his head. “That’s not true, Mick. What makes me sad is when I can tell you’re hurting and I don’t know what to do. That’s not you doing it, Mick. That’s just me loving you.” He puts his hands on Mickey’s face. “When I have mood swings and I get manic or really low, is it me making you sad?”

“No,” Mickey says. “Not your fault.”

“Okay,” Ian says. “So you get it.”

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t know.” He knows better than to say _you have a real reason_. Mickey has a real reason. He knows no one would walk out of that house unscathed. Even Joey and Jamie and Colin and Iggy are fucked up and can’t really love anyone for real because of Terry. At least Mickey can love Ian. It’s just easier not to blame Ian than himself.

“I know,” Ian says. “You’re harder on yourself than on me. And I’m harder on myself than on you. So I’ll look out for you, and you look out for me, and we’ll both be taken care of. Yeah?”

It makes Mickey smile. “Cover our bases.”

“Exactly. Long as you don’t piss on the base this time.”

Mickey huffs. “Fuck you.” It reminds him of the other part of his therapy session. “Oh, by the way, Kim said us fucking when I have a bad day is a good thing.”

Ian’s mouth drops open. “You talked to Kim about our sex life?”

“I didn’t want you worried about the unhealthy coping thing.”

Ian’s got that look on his face like Mickey’s a big fucking surprise. “Okay,” he says, shaking his head and laughing a little. “So what’d she say?”

“She said…” Mickey rubs his hand over Ian’s thigh. “She said it wasn’t the sex I was using to cope. It’s you. It’s us. I want to fuck you after a bad day because it feels good to get off, but it’s about…you know, like, being loved and all that shit.”

Ian laughs. “All that shit,” he echoes, grinning. “Okay. I’ll consider that a green light to fuck as much as we want.”

“I didn’t know we were waiting for a green light. You mean there’s times you want to fuck and don’t? Shit, I don’t know if my ass is ready.”

“It’s not,” Ian assures him, licking his lips lecherously to make Mickey laugh. Mickey holds onto Ian’s wrist.

“Your shrink tell you it’s an unhealthy coping mechanism?” Mickey can’t stop thinking about Kim talking about when sex is unhealthy. With toxic people, when it’s not safe, when it’s hurting a relationship. Mickey’s done that before, usually when he was trying to forget Ian. And it sounds an awful lot like stuff Ian’s done. He knows Ian gets annoyed when he butts into his therapy and meds and everything, but it’s bothering him.

Ian sighs and gives him a smile that’s so sad Mickey wants to kill someone. “Yeah, Mick. I used to use sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism.”

“With me?” There are a lot of people who could describe Mickey as a toxic person. He definitely was when they first started fucking. But he doesn’t want to be a way Ian hurts himself. Not like he wants to give up fucking Ian forever, but he could try if he needs to.

“No,” Ian says. He squeezes Mickey’s arm. “With the older guys, mostly. Kash and Ned. And with all the guys I can’t even remember, at the club. With the guys…” He hesitates and Mickey shakes his head so Ian doesn’t go on. Mickey knows he means the guys behind Mickey’s back.

“Okay,” Mickey says. “That’s over. That’s done. Ancient history that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It still matters,” Ian corrects softly. “Everything in our ancient history still matters. But we’re past it.” He rubs Mickey’s back. “With the older guys, it made me feel kind of powerful. They were older, but I got them to chase after me, you know? And then with the other guys, at the club and the ones behind your back…I mean, I knew it was a bad thing to do. But I just thought, who the fuck cares? I felt like I could do whatever I wanted and it didn’t matter. They weren’t even people to me. They were just a way to fuck. Sometimes I didn’t even stay in my head while it was happening. I’d be fucking some dude and it was like I wasn’t even in my body anymore. I just closed my eyes and pretended I wasn’t there. But it felt good to get guys to want me. Because no matter what else I was fucking up, at least guys wanted to fuck me. Maybe I was too dumb for West Point and I fucked up the Army and my life was falling to shit, but I was still hot enough that all these guys wanted me.”

“Ian,” Mickey breathes, because that sounds really fucking bad. Mickey did that sometimes, pretending he wasn’t there and wasn’t in his own body, when he tried fucking chicks. Every time he fucked Svetlana, for sure, and he’s already talked with all the shrinks about how that’s not a good thing. He hates the idea of Ian doing that. And he _really_ hates Ian thinking he had to go whore himself around to feel good. To feel worth something. “You’re better than just a good fuck,” he says clumsily, not sure how to say what he means. “You’re…God, Ian, you’re…” He doesn’t even know what to say. “You’re smart. Really fucking funny. You care about everything and everyone.”

Ian has tears in his eyes. He nods, smiling. “I know, Mick. I know that now. And I never had to go away in my head with you. I always knew you cared about more than just fucking.” He huffs. “Even when you pretended you didn’t.”

Mickey laughs a little, reaching over to wipe the tears off Ian’s face. “Good thing you’re such a persistent little fucker.”

“Just for you,” Ian promises. He looks at Mickey for a second and frowns a little. “What else are you thinking about?” He presses. “Seems like there’s still something bugging you.”

Fuck. Ian knows him too well. Mickey could just leave this part out. He doesn’t have to tell Ian about his insecurities or what the fuck ever. It’s just going to make Ian feel bad, and the whole forced marriage thing in his past seems like a good enough reason. What can Ian even do about it? He’s apologized for it. He can’t go back in time and change it. There’s no reason point in bringing it up.

Except they’re not keeping shit from each other anymore. They’re talking everything through. They agreed on that. They promised.

“Ian…” Mickey takes a deep breath. “You, um. You left me. A lot. Before. With the Army, and when you took off with the kid, and then when you ended things just before I went inside, and you didn’t come visit me, and then—and this time, the first time, and I woke up alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispers, eyes filling up with tears again as he realizes what Mickey’s saying. “Mickey, you know I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Mickey says. “But I can’t—I mean, it doesn’t just go away, Ian.” Ian’s face crumples and Mickey feels like an asshole. He shouldn’t have said anything. He doesn’t know if it’s better that they’re talking about this or if he should’ve just shut the fuck up and worked it out on his own. “I do trust you, Ian. I know you’re not leaving. But.” He shrugs. He feels like an asshole, but it feels kind of good to get it off his chest. Maybe therapy’s not all bullshit. “I mean, you’re the one who made fun of me for talking about the sickness and health shit.”

That makes Ian look up. “You really wanted to get married back then?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Mickey admits. “I don’t know. But you made a fucking joke out of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mickey says. “And you were trying to let me go because you thought it’d be good for me. But I mean…” Mickey shrugs.

“You told me you loved me and I left you outside to get shot at and taken to prison,” Ian finishes hollowly. “And then I didn’t even visit you.”

Mickey pulls Ian close, because they’re both hurting now. “Sorry I can’t just get over it.”

Ian makes a pained little noise, shaking his head. “This is not on you, Mick. Not at all.”

“But it’s not on you, either,” Mickey counters. “It was a million years ago. We’re different now. I shouldn’t be holding any of that shit against you. And I don’t. I mean, I didn’t think I did. And I don’t—I’m not waking up in the middle of the night thinking you’re gonna bail. I know you’re here. I know you…you love me.”

“I do, Mickey,” Ian says desperately. “I love you so much.”

“I know,” Mickey promises. “No one’s ever loved me. Not until you did. I didn’t even know what it felt like for anyone to give a shit about me until you did. And you still do. I know you do. I guess it’s just, you know. Subconscious.”

Ian traces out a light little pattern across Mickey’s knee with his finger. “With Dr. Saria,” he starts, and Mickey looks up at him for a second. Ian never talks about his own therapy. Mickey looks away when Ian starts talking again just in case Ian needs him to not be looking. Mickey has trouble saying big things when he can feel people’s eyes boring into him, and he doesn’t want to do that to Ian. “It took me a long time to realize that I—I mean, with Kash and with Ned and all those other guys? That was…I mean, I was being molested. Technically. Like…that was statutory rape.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, because duh. Those guys were like sixty years old and Ian wasn’t even old enough to drive, and they were all creepy as fuck about it. Liked Ian because he looked young and innocent. It was why Mickey hated them all so much. Besides the jealousy.

“But I didn’t want to ever admit it or think about it. At the time, I felt like I had so much control, you know?”

“Not really,” Mickey says with a little laugh. “I don’t have a fucking clue what having control feels like, man.”

“I thought I did,” Ian says. “They were older and had money, but I was the one they were chasing after. They _wanted_ me. And then when Dr. Saria called me a _child sex abuse victim_ I lost my shit. I broke some stuff in his office.”

“No fucking way,” Mickey protests. He understands the feeling, though. He’s yelled at more than one of those shrinks who want to talk about what happened that day Terry walked in on them. “When was that?”

“Years ago,” Ian tells him, shrugging. Mickey was still locked up, then. “Took me a long time to admit it. I had to read a bunch of stuff about it before it all finally clicked. It’s, uh. Dr. Saria says it was a big factor in developing my self-worth.” He says it like he’s quoting exactly what the shrink said. He’d probably make air quotes if Mickey weren’t monopolizing his hands. “And, you know, there’s a lot of subconscious stuff I still have from that. It has a lot to do with how I handle relationships. I’m not saying—I’m not trying to make excuses or anything.”

“Hey,” Mickey cuts him off. “Yeah. I get what you’re saying.” He gives Ian a rueful smile. “So being fucked up separately is fucking us up together.”

Ian huffs, tears in his eyes. “I guess so.”

Mickey leans in and kisses him, because he has to. “You’re good,” he says. “In relationships. I mean, what the fuck do I know, right? But I think you’re good.”

Ian laughs a little. “Thanks, Mick. I know you do. That…it’s what makes a big difference. You think I’m good, even when I don’t. You give a fuck.”

It makes Mickey snort. “Yeah, I give a fuck.”

They’re holding onto each other, but neither is quite sure where to look. “So where’s that leave us?” Ian asks. He’s got one big, warm hand on Mickey’s back and he’s making these slow, sweeping circles across Mickey’s shoulder blades. This is what Mickey thinks about when Kim talks about finding a safe feeling. He used to think of feeling safe as being alone behind a thick, locked door no one could kick down and a gun with a full clip in the small of his back. Now, when he thinks of safe, he thinks of Ian rubbing circles on his back, knowing his family’s happy and taken care of. He pictures their house, the door locked but a few people with keys, warm and messy because none of them ever pick up their shit, with Ian touching him and Svetlana and the kid laughing and happy.

“I want…” Mickey stops and takes a deep breath. His voice shakes a little when he goes on. “I think I want to marry you.”

Ian sucks in a breath. “Even with all this?”

“Fuck, Ian, yes. I mean.” Mickey shrugs. “We already are, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “Just not to the government.”

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get there, though,” Mickey whispers. “I don’t just want to do it so I can go to the fucking doctor. I want to do it for real, you know, because we want to. I just think I need some time.”

“Hey,” Ian says, putting both hands on Mickey’s face. “We got plenty of time.”

“You gonna wait for me?” Mickey asks, and then they both wince as they remember the last time he asked Ian that question.

Ian pulls Mickey in and kisses him, a long, slow kiss. “Mickey,” he says. “I’m gonna be right here with you the whole time. I’m never leaving again. I promise.”

Mickey nods, unable to speak. He buries his face in Ian’s neck and breathes him in. He knows they didn’t actually fix anything, not really. They didn’t decide anything. But it feels like something changed, like they just stepped over an invisible line. He wouldn’t have thought they had any lines left to cross, not at this point with everything they’ve been through. He feels shaky and wrung-out after all the emotions of the day. He’s so tired, but he’s probably not going to be able to sleep _again_ tonight. But he feels better now that Ian’s not upset with him.

Ian strokes Mickey’s hair. “And I know…I shut you out with my shit. Therapy and my meds and everything. And I gotta work on that, too.”

“You don’t have to,” Mickey says, even as his heart leaps. “You’re allowed to have your own shit.”

“Sure,” Ian agrees. “But you’re part of my shit, Mickey. It affects you, too. And I shouldn’t block you out of all that just because I feel…I don’t know. I still kind of feel weak about it, sometimes.”

“You’re not fucking weak,” Mickey immediately snaps.

Ian laughs a little bit. “Sometimes I know that. But it’s good if I let you know what I’m thinking so you can remind me. And I definitely don’t need to bite your head off when you worry about me.”

“Hope not, ‘cause I can’t stop,” Mickey says. It’s not just Ian’s meds or his sleeping schedule or any of that. Mickey thinks he’d worry about Ian just as much if he weren’t bipolar. It’s just what Mickey does.

“I know,” Ian says. He smiles a little. “I’m lucky you do. And I hope you know I didn’t bring up the civil union or marriage thing or whatever because I don’t think…because I’m not happy with us. I am.”

“I know,” Mickey assures him. “You just want to get me on your insurance so I can go to Kim all the time instead of the free clinic.”

Ian makes a face. “Well, I mean, not _just_. It’s a big piece. Yeah, we’ll get you health insurance, and then we’ll have power of attorney with each other and all that shit. If I ever gotta get committed again you can help take care of that. But I guess I’d be lying if I said there’s not a part of me that wants to be able to show you off as my husband.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you into it, though. I’m happy, Mick. I love you. I don’t need a piece of paper telling me that.”

“I know,” Mickey says. “I think I just…I think I want it, too. Even though we both already know and we already act like it.” He laughs nervously. “Is that dumb?”

“No, it’s not fucking dumb,” Ian says, tears in his eyes. “God, Mick, you went from pretending you didn’t even know my first name to wanting to marry me.”

Mickey sniffles, tearing up because Ian is. “That’s how good your dick is.”

“I fucked my way into your heart.” They’re laughing now, holding onto each other and crying a little bit.

“I’ll try to hurry,” Mickey promises.

“Don’t worry,” Ian says. “And who knows, maybe when you’re ready I’ll start freaking out.” He huffs. “I got bad shit with marriage, too.”

“Worried we’re turning into Frank and Monica?”

Ian smiles at him. “Well, not really. I’m always afraid of turning into Monica, but I’m not real worried about you being Frank.”

Mickey looks at Ian for a minute. He looks at the freckles across his nose and the bags under his eyes and the lines that are starting to stick around his eyes even when he’s not laughing. They’re going to get _old_. It’s not something Mickey’s put a lot of thought into. He never used to think he’d get old. Ian’s going to get all wrinkled up. He could go _bald_. That’s a startling thought. He’d look so weird without hair. Frank’s showing no signs of going bald, though, so they’re probably safe. Mickey’s hair might turn white, like Terry’s, and if that happens he’s definitely going to freak the fuck out about it. Waking up and looking like Terry will not be a good thing. He’s going to get fat as fuck, definitely. Especially since they’re all responsible, working adults now and don’t have to scrounge around for food.

“Did I lose you?” Ian asks.

“Course not,” Mickey answers quietly. “You’re never losing me.” It’s really fucking cheesy to say but he doesn’t care.

Ian strokes his thumb across Mickey’s cheek. “I know, Mick,” he says. “And you’re never losing me, either. No matter what any paper says.” He leans in and presses their lips together, so soft Mickey almost can’t feel it. “If it ever stops freaking you out, and it doesn’t freak me out, and we do it, great. But you’re stuck with me either way.”

“That’s the way I like it,” Mickey says. “Want to put you in my fucking pocket and carry you around everywhere I go.” Jesus, he sounds high. They need to get off this sharing train before he gets weirder and pulls some Hannibal Lecter shit and tells Ian he’s going to wear his skin around or something just as creepy.

“If anyone’s pocket-sized here, it’s you,” Ian points out.

“God, shut the fuck up,” Mickey complains. “I’m the average height for an American man.”

“Sure, when you go up on your tiptoes to kiss me,” Ian teases.

“I don’t have _tiptoes_ ,” Mickey protests. “I’m not a 12-year-old girl.”

Ian cracks up laughing. “Mickey, everyone has tiptoes. It just means the tip of your toes.”

“Well, I’ve never stood on them.”

“Yes, you have,” Ian cries, laughing. “Oh my God.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, grinning so hard his face hurts.

“Yeah, if you’re lucky,” Ian says, grinning back just as wide. He moves in close and nuzzles into the side of Mickey’s face. “You wanna tell people we’re thinking about it or keep it quiet?”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Well, we already told Svet,” he points out. “And the kid heard, so he’s probably going to start running his mouth.”

“We could tell both of them not to say anything.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, our kid’s real good at keeping secrets.”

Ian huffs, because they both know Mickey’s right. That kid blurts out every thought in his head. In a way, Mickey likes it. He likes that his kid knows he can talk without someone snapping at him to shut up, telling him no one cares what he thinks, smacking him to make sure the message gets across.

“I don’t think it needs to be a secret,” Ian says. “People can know we’re thinking about it. Everyone already calls us married anyway.” He raises his eyebrows. “You gonna be okay with that?”

Mickey wants to snap at him, because that’s always Mickey’s instinct when he doesn’t know how to react to something. But he reigns it in. He think of Ian being his safe feeling and he takes a deep, calming breath.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Guess we’ll just hope for the best.”

Ian stares at him for a second like he’s growing a second head. “Okay,” he finally says. “That’s…not what I was expecting you to say. That’s pretty fucking optimistic, Mick.”

Mickey shrugs. He feels a little self-conscious, but not too bad. Not with Ian. “Guess I’m feeling pretty fucking optimistic about life.”

Ian’s smile is practically blinding. He looks like he should be in a fucking toothpaste ad. “Yeah?” He asks. “I know the feeling.”

“Alright, cornball,” Mickey says, like he’s not grinning just as wide. It makes Ian laugh, because he’s always been able to see through Mickey’s tough words. Good thing, or they wouldn’t be here.

“You just told me you want to carry me around in your pocket,” Ian points out.

“Yeah, well, no one will believe you if you try to tell them, so I still fucking win.”

Mickey does win, in a lot of ways. He doesn’t know what kind of cosmic jackpot he won to be here with Ian right now, laughing and crying and clinging to each other in their bed while they talk about getting their shit together and getting married, but he definitely won.

 

“Oh, here, Yev,” Fiona calls across the table. “You didn’t get green beans yet.”

Lip takes the bowl from her and spoons out green beans for Yevgeny. Mickey’s got Ian at one elbow and Carl at the other. Carl’s got a quiz coming up on reactions to different drugs, so he keeps asking Mickey to verify the information in his textbook.

“Homicidal urges?” Carl asks.

“The fuck should I know?” Mickey asks. “You think I can tell when my homicidal urges are from drugs or just the regular kind?”

“I don’t think any homicidal urges are the regular kind,” Lip bites back.

“Really?” Debbie asks. “I guess I’m screwed, then.”

Mickey laughs. He’s always had a soft spot for that one. Maybe it’s because she looks the most like Ian. Maybe it’s just because he feels a natural kind of comfort around a woman who takes a shiv to high school.

“Where’d all this come from?” Ian asks. They’re eating some fancy catered shit, steak and vegetables and dainty little bread rolls that barely hold up the butter they’re slathering on them.

“Me and Fi worked a catering gig today,” Liam says proudly.

“They let you work?” Ian asks. “Cool.” Mickey’s pretty sure they had to lie and do it under the table, but whatever. Liam’s obviously happy he got to do it.

“Big fancy wedding,” Fiona says. “Probably spent more on that shit than we pay in rent for a year.”

“My dad and Ian are gonna have a wedding,” Yevgeny butts in conversationally.

The table goes absolutely silent. Svetlana shoots Ian and Mickey a wide-eyed look. They told her to keep it mostly on the down-low, but they thought if they didn’t say anything the kid would just forget about it. None of them even mentioned the word _wedding_. Mickey doesn’t know how he figured out _wedding_ from _civil union_. That school really must teach him a lot of shit.

“Uh,” Mickey says, because everyone’s staring at them now.

Liam laughs. “I knew it.”

“No,” Ian says, and somehow the room gets even quieter as everyone starts throwing around these panicked looks. “I mean, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Fiona echoes.

“Someday,” Ian clarifies. “We’re thinking about it. But we got a lot of shit to work through before we get to that point.”

“What kind of shit?” Liam asks curiously.

“None of your fucking business,” Mickey informs him without any heat.

“Prison shit,” Carl says sagely.

“Bipolar shit,” Lip amends.

“Baby mama drama,” Debbie adds, giving Svetlana a sideways glance that makes Svetlana snort.

“None of your fucking business shit,” Mickey reiterates, a little more annoyed now.

“Shouldn’t you have already worked all this shit out by now?” Lip asks. “You’ve been together for like ten years.”

“Well, it’s hard to work on your relationship when you’re apart for six years,” Debbie reasons.

“And when Ian was fucking other dudes all the time,” Carl points out.

“Okay, shut the fuck up,” Mickey snaps, because that’s getting dangerously close to the heart of the issue and Ian doesn’t deserve to feel like shit here at his family dinner. Mickey glances at Ian to see how he’s doing. Ian’s looking down at his plate, jaw clenched, but he takes the hand Mickey offers him under the table.

“Mickey’s right,” Fiona says, sending a glare at her younger siblings. “Every relationship has shit to work through. It’s smart to make sure you’ve got it all squared away before jumping into anything.”

They all look guiltily at their plates, because Fiona was apparently married for a week or something like that, so she knows firsthand. Mickey doesn’t know all the details there, and that was even before he went to prison.

“Yev, tell them about how that kid peed his pants in class today,” Liam suggests, breaking the tension. Yevgeny obligingly launches into a story that Mickey’s pretty sure is at least half-fake, and dinner goes back to normal.

Mickey’s looking at the sink, like he does pretty much every fucking time he’s here, and he doesn’t even panic when he hears footsteps coming at him. He cranes his neck and sees Svetlana standing there.

“What?” He asks.

“Dishes,” she says.

“Yeah, it’s gonna have to wait.” She doesn’t leave, though, so Mickey comes out from under the sink and leans against the counter. “What?”

“I am not baby mama drama,” she says.

It startles a laugh out of him, because it’s such a weird thing to hear from her. “I never said you were.”

“I mean…” She hesitates. “I want you to be married. And happy.”

Mickey gets a little lump in his throat. “Thanks.”

“If you want to move to your own house—”

“Whoa, hey,” Mickey cuts her off. “We never even thought about that. We’re not leaving.”

She doesn’t quite sigh, but Mickey can see the relief on her face. “Oh, okay.”

“The fuck?” He says, teasing her a little. “Thought we’d just pack up without you?”

She doesn’t laugh, though. She just shrugs. Mickey realizes, in a rush, that he’s done that to her. Kim says he’s insecure because Ian kept leaving him, but all Mickey’s ever done is try to get away from Svetlana. Sure, there are a lot of reasons there, but it’s not like marrying Mickey was her idea of a fucking fairy tale ending, either. Him trying to leave has always been about Ian, too, and she knows it. Now he’s talking about marrying Ian. That’s got to worry her a little.

“Look,” Mickey says, even though it’s a dumb phrase to use when he can’t meet her eyes. “Me and Ian getting married, if that ever even happens, that’s not going to change this.” He makes a circle between them with his hand. “We’re a family, Svet. You, me, Ian, the kid. So we’re not just going to leave.”

He thinks he can see a little glisten in her eye, but he doesn’t mention it. She nods at him. “Okay,” she says.

“And whoever you settle down with better know that’s how it works,” Mickey adds.

That manages to make her smile. “You have to interview before I choose someone.”

“Fucking right. Gotta make sure my baby mama gets treated right.”

She snorts and pinches him. “I take care of myself.”

“Sure,” he says, because that’s true. “But you can let us take care of you, too.”

Now she’s definitely a little teary-eyed. She kisses his cheek and leaves. Mickey sighs and looks up at the ceiling. He wonders if there’s ever going to be a day when they don’t have fifty emotional breakdowns per week.

“You doing dishes?” Lip comes over with a bunch of plates.

“No one’s doing dishes right now,” Mickey says. “Gotta replace that fucking washer again. You people use this sink too much.”

“I don’t live here anymore,” Lip points out.

“You’re still here all the time,” Mickey counters. Lip puts the plates on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. Mickey scoffs at him. “You gonna tell me I gotta get your permission to marry your brother or some shit?”

Lip rolls his eyes. “You know, you may not believe this, but I do actually _know_ Ian. You think I’d try to pull that shit?”

Mickey shrugs. “You’ve pulled some pretty dumb shit, genius or not.”

Lip shrugs too. “Yeah, who hasn’t?”

Mickey tips his head, conceding. “So, what?” Mickey asks. “Here to tell me you’ll kill me if I hurt him?” Mickey snorts. “Like I’d be worried about you.”

“You know, Mickey…” Lip sighs. “The first time Ian told me he was fucking you, I knew it was going to be horrible. He came home looking like someone beat the shit out of him more than once and I knew it was always you.” That’s a little unfair, because it was only Mickey once. Maybe twice. The other time it was Terry, and maybe a time or two they got in a fight together against someone else. But Mickey doesn’t know what Lip knows about that day with Terry, and he’s sure as fuck not going to talk about it, least of all with Lip. “I had to pull Ian out of your wedding all drunk and crying and take him home. And I told him, the good thing about falling for Mickey Milkovich is you can always find someone better.”

Mickey would love to scoff right now. He would love to shrug this off. He would love to tell Lip to fuck off. He would really love to have any reaction but the one he’s having, which is tears welling up in his eyes and his breath stuttering away from him. He never would’ve made it through his childhood if he’d cried like this, that’s for fucking sure. Ian says he’s making up for all the shit he should’ve cried about and couldn’t. Although honestly, Mickey did cry a lot before, too, but he was better at hiding it or waiting until no one could see him.

It’s really fucking stupid to cry over this. Mickey knows Ian loves him. Ian’s not looking for anyone better. But Lip’s saying something Mickey’s thought plenty of times, and it doesn’t feel great to hear it out loud from someone else. Mickey’s still working on that low self-esteem and toxic shame shit, and this isn’t helping.

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey manages to say around the lump in his throat. “I get it. I’m trash and you want your brother to find someone better.” He’s sure as fuck not going to let Lip know how hard that blow landed.

Lip makes a considering noise. “Well, see, that’s what I thought. But then you got Ian to come home. Me and Debs found him at the bar and we couldn’t get him to even come out and talk to us. But you go in there one time and he comes home.”

“I had to wait outside to carry him home,” Mickey corrects softly, remembering Ian’s flushed skin and empty eyes at that club. “He didn’t want to come with me.”

“But he did,” Lip points out. “And he stayed. And then he crashed, and God, did I blame you. I thought of course he’d be depressed, playing house in that shithole you lived in.” Mickey nods, clenching his jaw. He really doesn’t like thinking about Ian stuck in that bed. It was almost hard to sleep in that bed afterward, even when Ian was up and bounding around again. “And you didn’t listen, and he got manic, and you told us he was fine. And then he took your kid, and we had to check him into the hospital. And you disappeared, and I thought, see? Knew it. And I hated you for doing that to Ian. And then…” Lip chuckles. “You came back. And you were buying him goddamn vitamins and making sure he took his pills and I saw you _kiss_ his _forehead_ and I thought…who the fuck is this? This isn’t Mickey Milkovich.”

“This chapter in the history book got an end in sight?” Mickey snaps, because yes, actually, the end of that chapter is in sight, and Mickey doesn’t want to think about it right now. He really doesn’t need Lip rehashing Mickey’s greatest fucking hits like it doesn’t play on a loop in Mickey’s head every night when he’s trying to sleep.

“You got locked up because you were getting back at Sammi for what she did to Ian,” Lip says. “And now you guys are…I don’t know how, honest to God, but you’re actually a _couple_ , like a healthy, real couple. You’re gonna work on your shit before you get married.” Lip laughs. “I mean, shit! That’s a normal thing for people to say.”

“Okay?” Mickey says, feeling totally confused now. “What’s your point?”

“You make him happy,” Lip says simply. “I didn’t see it before. I was wrapped up in my own shit. Had shit with Mandy that made me hate you a little more than you deserved, probably.”

“Mad at me for kicking your ass so many times when we were kids,” Mickey says. He probably shouldn’t be smug about that, but he can’t help it. Lip fully deserved at least 75% of those beat downs.

“That too,” Lip agrees. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re good for him. And I don’t even worry about you hurting him. I guess you probably will, ‘cause that happens in relationships, right? But it won’t be anything big. And you’ll fix it.” Lip laughs a little, shaking his head. “You want to know the first thing I thought when your kid said you guys were getting married?”

“I don’t know, do I?” Mickey shoots back.

“I thought, _about time_ ,” Lip says. “I’m glad.”

Mickey doesn’t have a fucking clue what to say to that. “Okay,” he says cautiously. He’s waiting for the catch. There’s no way Lip’s just congratulating him.

“Anyway, I just want to say, I’m glad I didn’t manage to ruin this for him,” Lip says. “I do that sometimes, and I talked a lot of shit about you to try to get him away from you. But I’m glad it didn’t work. I’m glad you kept chasing him when you got out.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Uh, what? I didn’t. Ian chased me. I was fucking keeping my distance and he came at me through the kid.”

“Oh,” Lip says, brow wrinkled.

“The fuck’s he been telling people?” Mickey demands.

Lip shakes his head. “No, he didn’t tell me that. I just assumed.”

“Fuck you assuming,” Mickey says. “Think I’m a sad fucking puppy who won’t run away when he gets kicked in the balls fifty times?”

Lip’s laughing at him now, but it doesn’t annoy Mickey as much as it normally does. “Okay, sorry,” Lip says, and he’s got that sarcastic, superior tone that _does_ annoy Mickey. “Anyway, congratulations. I’m happy for you guys.”

“Yeah, well.” Mickey shrugs. “We might not even do it. I’m all fucked up in the head, got all kinds of shit going on.” He shrugs again. “We’ll see.”

They lapse into silence. It’s making Mickey kind of twitchy. He’s never been particularly comfortable with Lip, even before everything with Ian started. Lip was good for writing papers on the cheap, but he was always such a smug asshole and it made Mickey want to bust his face in. It’s not an urge that’s fully left.

“So, uh,” Lip starts. “How’s Mandy?”

“None of your fucking business,” Mickey says. “And don’t you go chasing her ass, you hear me? Leave her the fuck alone. She’s good and she doesn’t need any fuckheads like you fucking that up.” He cracks his knuckles for good measure.

Lip grins at him, and the urge to bust his face in makes a strong resurgence. “She’s good, huh?”

“She’s taking college classes,” Mickey tells him grudgingly. He’s torn between not wanting Lip to know anything and his pride in his sister.

“No shit?” Lip asks. “That’s amazing.”

He actually looks genuinely happy, and Mickey relaxes a fraction. “I’m serious, don’t try to go after her,” he says. “That’d be too fucking weird now. Siblings shouldn’t be fucking siblings.”

“That actually happens more often than you might think,” Lip says.

“Fuck, you’re annoying,” Mickey says, and it’s almost fond. This is the most he’s ever liked Lip.

Lip claps Mickey on the shoulder, which makes Mickey flinch against his will. He’s almost to the point where unexpected touches from people he’s comfortable with don’t make him flinch. But not all the way. Or maybe Lip doesn’t count as someone he’s comfortable with. Lip frowns.

“Lotta shit happened to you in prison, huh?”

Mickey has to breathe out slowly to keep memories from flooding him. He doesn’t have time for that shit right now. “Yeah,” is all he says. He was going to tell Lip to fuck off, but he figures Lip earned at least an acknowledgement of the truth. Besides, he can think that’s why they’re holding off getting married and not have to think it’s Ian’s deal.

“Worse than you grew up with?” Lip sounds skeptical, which is really fucking annoying. He obviously doesn’t go to therapy, or he’d know it doesn’t always have to be worse to have a bigger impact.

Mickey just shrugs. “More like just piled on the bad shit until it got to be too much to ignore.”

Lip nods. “The straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Eh, face and ribs, mostly,” Mickey jokes dryly.

“It’s a saying.”

“I fucking know it’s a saying, Jesus.” Mickey groans. “I’m being clever.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know that was a skill you possess.”

“Okay, fuck off,” Mickey says, finally turning back to the sink. He played nice as long as he could.

“Mickey,” Lip says. Mickey looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised impatiently. “You doing better now?”

What a loaded question, especially with everything that’s happened in the past few days. Mickey shrugs. “Good days and bad days. Working on it.”

Lip looks a little surprised, but he must’ve finally turned on that big brain of his and clued into the fact that Mickey doesn’t want to talk about this. He nods and Mickey thinks that’s finally going to be the end of it. He turns back to the sink and hears Lip walk away. Just before he leaves, though, Lip says, “I’m glad.”

Mickey nods, still turned away, because he’s so caught off-guard he can’t form any response. He knows Lip cares more for Ian’s sake than Mickey’s, but it’s still kind of surprising he expressed any care at all. There are more footsteps behind him and Mickey whirls around, exasperated.

“Jesus Christ, what else could you possibly—” He cuts off because it isn’t Lip again. It’s Ian. “Oh, hey. Thought you were that asshat brother of yours.”

“Saw you having a heart-to-heart with Lip,” Ian says placidly. “Pulling a Monica on me after all?”

It takes Mickey a second to figure out what Ian’s saying, to remember their conversation from last week that feels like it was a million years ago. He laughs out loud. “You’re an asshole.” Ian comes closer and Mickey pulls him in by the hem of his shirt. It’s not like it takes much pulling; Ian comes willingly. “You here to rush me into fixing this goddamn sink so someone can con me into doing all the fucking dishes?”

Ian kisses him, grinning. “I’d never leave you to do the dishes by yourself,” he promises. “I’d make Carl help.”

“Shit, that’s worse than doing it myself.”

“What’d you and Lip talk about?” Ian asks, voice muffled because he’s pressing his face into Mickey’s neck.

“Mmm.” Mickey takes his time answering, just enjoying the feeling of hanging onto Ian. They’re rocking a little, almost dancing, and Mickey thinks, nonsensically, that he might have to do this with people watching if they ever have a wedding. He doesn’t like that thought, so he pushes it away. “He said he always thought I was trash.”

He mourns his little joke when Ian pulls back immediately, already all fired up. “That fucking—”

“No, no,” Mickey soothes, pulling Ian back in. “I mean, he did say that. But he said he, I don’t know, changed his mind, I guess.”

“Oh,” Ian says, settling back down.

“Said he’s happy for us,” Mickey relays softly. He feels Ian smile.

“Aw,” he says, halfway between sincerity and sarcasm. “You guys are friends now.”

“No, we’re not,” Mickey protests. “I’m not friends with any of these fucking clowns.”

That makes Ian laugh. “Hey, _fucking clowns_ is practically a term of endearment from you.”

“I’m being nice ‘cause they’re your family.”

“Yours, too,” Ian reminds him with a wide smile.

“Hey, pump the breaks, we ain’t married yet,” Mickey says.

Ian laughs again. “Gonna change your mind?” He’s acting like he’s joking, but Mickey can see the sliver of uncertainty in his eyes. It makes Mickey’s chest hurt. That’s his fault, probably. Trying to work on his insecurities probably made new ones for Ian. Maybe if they catch the new ones fast enough they won’t stick around. This working on their issues shit is exhausting. He dips in and kisses Ian, long and deep and good.

“Can’t promise I’m ever gonna figure out the marriage thing,” Mickey admits. “I want to, but.” He shrugs. “You know. But hey.” He puts his hands on Ian’s face and makes Ian look at him. Normally, this is the kind of thing Mickey wouldn’t want eye contact for. It scares him, sometimes, looking into people’s eyes while he’s trying to find words to match his feelings. It’s hard. But Ian needs to look at him while he says this. Ian needs to know this is true. “I’m not changing my mind about you. I don’t need to think that over. I’m fucking yours, Ian.” He shakes his head. “Always have been.”

Ian nods furiously, eyes bright. “Yeah, Mick,” he breathes. “Me, too. I love you.”

Mickey only has to swallow once before he can bring up the words. It’s an improvement. “I love you, too.”

Ian surges forward to bring their lips together again. The kiss gets deep right away and Ian drops his hands down to squeeze Mickey’s ass. Mickey backs Ian up to the counter to get some leverage and pushes one hand up the front of Ian’s shirt, the other curling around his neck to keep his lips right there. Ian puts one hand up in Mickey’s hair and grabs on, the other still kneading Mickey’s ass.

“Oh my _God_!” Debbie shrieks. “Get a room!” She’s got three other wide-eyed college kids with backpacks behind her, and Mickey remembers her mentioning a study group was coming over. Oops.

They pull back, both panting. “Sorry, Debs,” Ian says, not letting go of Mickey’s ass.

“Ugh,” Debbie says, calmer now and just annoyed. “This is my brother and his fiancé,” she explains to her friends, and Mickey has to admit the word sends a little shock down his spine. He can’t be sure if it’s a good shock or a bad shock just yet, because everything’s feeling pretty good right now with Ian completely pressed up against him.

“We’re actually more engaged to be engaged,” Ian explains, because of course Ian can just be open about that shit.

“What _ever_ ,” Debbie huffs. She’s probably annoyed because she’s not getting any on the regular. That Mickey knows of, anyway, and now he’s making a face at himself because he doesn’t want to think about that. “We need to work on this project so could you please take this somewhere private?”

“Sure, your bed free?” Mickey shoots back, making a girl in the back clap a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.

Debbie gives him a dirty look. “Don’t try to be cute when you’re basically still having sex while I’m trying to talk to you,” she says, because Mickey’s still got his hand up Ian’s shirt, stroking his hand across Ian’s skin, and Ian’s holding onto Mickey’s ass like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Ian reluctantly lets go of Mickey, and Mickey will admit it takes him an extra try to pull his hand away from Ian. He’d make a joke about wondering how she ever got pregnant if she thinks this is sex, but it’s too mean. He’s evolving.

“Sorry, Debs,” Ian says again, more sincerely this time. He nudges Mickey.

Mickey shrugs. “I ain’t saying sorry. It’d be a lie. And Debbie doesn’t like when I lie to her.”

Debbie rolls her eyes, but Mickey can see her wanting to laugh at that. “I guess I can forgive you,” she says loftily. “Getting engaged makes you want to tear each other’s clothes off.”

“I don’t think it’s the getting engaged, actually,” Ian says. “Been tearing each other’s clothes off in inappropriate places since we were kids.”

“I don’t need to hear this,” Debbie points out, slightly pained.

“I think I do,” the boy in the group mutters. Mickey gives him a glare for good measure, because he’s never going to trust anyone who looks at Ian like that. Only Mickey’s allowed to look at Ian like that.

“We’re going,” Ian promises, tugging at Mickey’s hand. “Good luck with your project.”

“Good luck with your…” The guy trails off when Mickey gives him another stare-down. “Your brother is really hot,” they hear him tell Debbie when they’re almost into the living room.

“Shut up, Kyle. You don’t have a chance,” Debbie answers disdainfully. “Ian’s never wanted anyone besides Mickey.”

It sends a warm feeling through Mickey’s stomach. He makes a mental note to get Debbie a kick ass birthday present this year. Ian grins over at him.

“Hear that?” He asks, squeezing Mickey’s hand.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He smiles back at Ian and something settles in his chest. It doesn’t mean he’s ready to run to the courthouse tomorrow morning or anything like that, but it feels more real than it did yesterday. He brings Ian’s hand to his mouth and kisses each of Ian’s knuckles. He puts an extra little kiss on Ian’s ring finger, just because he’s feeling stupid and cheesy and warm right now. Ian’s cheeks heat up a little, so he definitely noticed. “I hear you,” Mickey murmurs.

Ian’s smile grows, and Mickey can feel the smile on his own face following suit. They hold hands and walk off together, side-by-side, just like they always have been and they always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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